


Where the lightning goes through

by fairywearsbootz



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:06:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's an empty space between the tips of your fingers; it whispers to you constantly in a thin, silvery voice and tells you all the answers that you don't want to hear. There's an empty space in your palm, its shape the absence of the roundest part of her left shoulder; some part of you is scared breathless at the thought that it'll never be filled, but who are you to tell yourself the things you're trying to forget? There's a prickling on the side of your neck, the essence of all the times she has never touched you, and the hair at the nape of your neck stands up for years on end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where the lightning goes through

There's an empty space between the tips of your fingers; it whispers to you constantly in a thin, silvery voice and tells you all the answers that you don't want to hear. There's an empty space in your palm, its shape the absence of the roundest part of her left shoulder; some part of you is scared breathless at the thought that it'll never be filled, but who are you to tell yourself the things you're trying to forget? There's a prickling on the side of your neck, the essence of all the times she has never touched you, and the hair at the nape of your neck stands up for years on end.

#

In Madripoor she comes to you, sits next to you on the dusty rubble of the battle field. Her hand on your arm feels like confessions overheard through thin motel walls, a lonely intimacy. If you could wish away the cotton of your shirt you'd still be left with her gloves and you've never been able to wish those away. Only minutes ago you've watched her leach the life out of a man with a flick of her bare wrist, and maybe that's something you could wish for: that you still had it in you to commit the kind of crimes that would lay you down right next to him. But now, in this version of your immutable present, the frown on her face is neither hers nor yours, and she grips your arm tight enough to hurt.

Of all the women on this green earth, how could you not chose her?

#

Obviously there are ways, no one has thought more about this than you. Some half-forgotten time ago it was all hands on silk and lips on gauze and your skin on cotton so thin the sun would shine through it unperturbed. But almost is not good enough; your hunger has long transcended the mere warmth of her body.

Hello, my name is Remy, and I'm addicted to the feel of skin my hands have never touched, to the taste of the place between her breasts that I have never put my lips to. This is the only thing I can think of when I can't bear to think of anything else. For her I'd burn down any thicket of thorns and scale any tower, but at the top, bent over her sleeping form, I still couldn't kiss her awake. There's no use in slaying monsters for her, but that's all I know how to do.

#

In Westchester you rest your head in her lap and feel her fingers in your hair. She could easily crack your skull without so much as blinking down at you. Red blood and white bone, probably some gray from your brains; you're not really into fashion, but those colors could work well with the green of her cape. Not even with the inside of your skin could you touch her, though, and it wouldn't do much good anyways. You're too shredded, cut up by all the years you were watching her pulse beat in the hollow underneath her jaw, there's not much left to show her anymore.

#

You could probably toss a couple of words about other women in here, but why would you? You can never touch them as you can't touch her.

#

In New York she runs her hands through her hair and you long to slide your fingers in next to hers. On Genosha she fastens the laces of her combat boots and you ache to strip off her gloves with your teeth. In a hotel in Madrid she smirks at you and calls you sugah but you hardly hear her through the rushing of blood in your ears as you fight not to bury your face in the curve of her uncovered neck, to hold on until there's no distance left between you, until all of you has gone up in the smoke of the cigarette she'd light in your memory.

The shades of the spaces cradling her eyes, the color of the outside of her lip, the flutter of light and dark over the point where her collarbones meet: Pale, translucent, fair, milk, snow, ivory, alabaster. All of these words and more you have tried on your tongue in the quietest hour of the night, have carefully wrapped your lips around them where you couldn't wrap them around the knuckles of her right hand. Oh, how you envy the way she licks her lips; she's made a poor man's poet out of you. There's nothing else left in you, she has swallowed you to your core, eaten you up and spit you out until all the splintered roads of your tattered existence lead nowhere but to her and the mysteries embedded in her skin.

Sometimes the hunger recedes enough that you can laugh about it. Forget the poet: you have become the epitome of all teenage boys.

#

In New Orleans storm clouds hang low over the city, and her hair flaps in the heavy winds, white and red and white; red. The waves crash against the walls of the harbor, and with every new surge of water against stone you can feel bits of the ground underneath your feet give away.

You could jump into the water where it's deep and dark and vicious; you could lean over and kiss her lips where they're fullest. Her gloved hand tangles with yours, closes the spaces between your fingers, but there's still too much of you and too much of her and not enough of the warm lines where your flesh meets hers. Behind your closed eyes the ocean sounds like a heart that has been beating for the longest time, off and on and off and on and off–

You lean closer.


End file.
